It’s August.  And down in Mexico, that means it’s bullfighting season.  It might be time to head back down to Tijuana to dance with the girls in the red dresses.

Or maybe not.  Maybe I should just sit tight, lay low, hunker down here in Room 5, and not come out until I finish one or more of these goddamn books.

N.P.: “Bombshell from Hell” – Scum of the Earth

The good news is that I didn’t start a bunch of new projects today.  The bad news is I didn’t finish any old ones, either.  Still, progress is being made.  I can probably do another page before collapse.

It occurred to me last night/this morning that the main book is maybe closer than I thought to being submittable/salable.  Unsure.  We’ll see.

N.P.: “Come On – Thomas Tank Remix” – The Notorious B.I.G.

“Even a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day.  And for once I’m inclined to believe that Withnail is right: we are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell..making an enemy of our own future.” ~ I

Just a weird weekend.  Sort of annoying because there was a lot of waiting and seeing going on, so the whole thing felt like being on call,  I’d like to think that things will calm down tomorrow, but they won’t.  I could probably benefit from some therapeutic couch time.  Or I could just keep working on these books.  That’s been pretty cathartic of late.

N.P.: “Doc Holliday” – Volbeat

Me: Cheers.

He: Cheers.

Me:  Why did the chicken cross the road?

He: Why?

Me:  To get to the idiot’s house.  Knock knock.

He: Who’s there?

Me: The chicken.

He: You fucker.

Me: Cheers.

He:  Asshole.

N.P.: “Hard Time Killing Floor Blues” – Chris Thomas King

Writing and whiskey: the breakfast of champions.  Also the lunch and dinner and late supper of champions.

N.P.: “Hey Man, Nice Shot” – Filter

My spontaneous responses to a series of questions Oprah asks of authors she is considering for her book club:

Q: Finish these sentences: The world needs _______.

A:  A species-thinning plague.  And me.

Q: I believe in _______.

A: Nothing.

Q:  Love is _______.

A:  Always conditional.

Q: I am grateful for _______.

A: My enemies.  They give me something to look forward to.

Q: What is the soul?

A: The human psyche’s delusion created out of the ego’s complete inability to cope with the brutal truth of mortality, that when you die, you cease to exist.  Completely.  On every plane.

N.P.: “Cry Little Sister” – Carfax Abbey

“Do you need any extra soy sauce with that?”
“No, but chopsticks would be great.”
“Okay…chopsticks…there you go, and your total is $10.52.  Would you like to donate a dollar to Children’s Hospital?
“Fuck no.”
[all the staff behind the counter as well as all customers within earshot turn to glower with alarmed disapproval]
“…”
“Seriously, no. Absolutely not.  If I’d wanted to donate to some goddamn kid’s charity, I would have gone there instead of here, and I would have said, ‘I want to donate to your charity,’ instead of, ‘Can I please have the orange chicken and honey walnut shrimp.”
“It’s okay.”
“Is it?  Is it okay?  Damn right it’s okay.  Why don’t you donate that extra $1.25 you just charged me for the honey walnut shrimp?”
“It’s okay, sir.”
“Quit saying that!  I know it’s fucking okay!  Next time I’m going to Chipotle.  I don’t have to deal with broke hospital kids at Chipotle.  Upset my goddamn digestion.”

N.P.: “Strangers” – Then Comes Silence

Just nothing but bullshit today, dear reader.  Unbelievable amounts of unnecessary bullshit.  I’m going to be brief tonight because I’m a mushroom-cloud-layin’ motherfucker right now, and that’s not going to do anyone any good unless that anyone is either one of my books.

I was introduced today to a new German term that has felt very comfortable since I’ve heard it: einzelgänger.  Like a glove, mein lieber Leser.  If I ever live in Germany or joined Rammstein,  I would change my name to Klaus Von Einzelgänger.  Because it would be bad ass.

N.P.: “Dumhetens Gudinna” – Tid

A police chase (in fairness, it was pretty half-assed) and a car crash (also a tad half-assed…still counts) before 0630.  It was alarmingly normal…no panic, no adrenaline, no elevated respiratory rate…just another day in an all-too-slow world that moves far too timidly and cautiously for my tastes.  Seriously, I know many who feel as if the world is racing around them, and they talk about a hectic or even frantic pace…I feel as if the whole mess is moving in slow motion.

None of this early morning chaos disrupted the writing schedule, of course, dear reader, and I was able to turn out rather a lot of pages on the slasher novel.  Hopefully I can get a few pages in on the Real Book (the one I was supposed to have wrapped up over a month ago) before the nightly collapse happens.

N.P.: “Summer Breeze/Set Me On Fire” – Type O Negative